With Brains like Yours
by LittleIvy
Summary: It is 2002, and the Auror Department is desperate to eradicate Voldemort's following once and for all after a mass breakout from Azkaban. With Death Eaters on the loose, leaving a slew of corpses in their wake, investigative lead Hermione Granger must accept help from all sources- even unlikely, blond haired ones who she would rather leave in her past.
1. Fear Returning

She was sprawled on a hardwood floor, praying to a god she did not believe in that death would take her soon. Agony licked up her spine, like wildfire let loose on a wooded countryside.

"I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword?"

_A frozen lake in the Forest of Dean, _whispered a traitorous voice in the back of her skull. But her lips, numb from pain, did not move. They would never form those words, even as a fresh wave of pain pulsed across her skin and through her gut.

"We found it!" Her vocal chords were raw from screaming. "We found it! _Please!"_

"You are a lying, filthy Mudblood! _Crucio!"_

Intense though the pain was, it was the word that left lasting echoes. _Mudblood. _It speared through the dark, ornately furnished room like a whip crack, settling over her very bones. The word, and not the memories of pain, was what startled Hermione awake. Her racing mind did not comprehend, at first, that her bedroom was not the cold floor of Malfoy Manor. There was no Bellatrix lurking in the corner, no Greyback slavering for her blood. Just simple, modern furnishings, and her cat Crookshanks dozing on a nearby armchair.

The vinewood wand in her hand was warm, and thrummed with a familiar energy as she whispered a quick _Lumos. _It illuminated the way to her kitchen, which was dimly lit by a few everlasting candles, and a quick flick had the television flaring to life. The morning news was a comforting drone that chased away any lingering remnants of her nightmare, though a chill that was entirely misplaced in the late August heat still rippled in the pit of her stomach. Hermione could just make out, in the dull blue light of a waxing moon, where the ocean met the pebbly shore beyond her cottage home. There was no one in sight, Muggle or otherwise, and some of her tension eased. A hot coffee drove away the rest of the unseasonable cold.

Crookshanks, with his uncanny intuition, seemed to sense that Hermione was ill at ease. He curled up next to her on the sofa, where she had settled with her feet tucked beneath her. Even if she didn't have to be at the office for a few hours, there was little point in trying to fall asleep again— she rarely could, after a bad dream. Idly stroking Crookshanks' ginger fur, she was content to sip at her coffee and allow the morning to gently unfold.

"Police are investigating a triple homicide in Stratford-upon-Avon," came the news reporter's voice, jarring Hermione from her sleep-hazy thoughts. "Official reports have yet to be released, however investigators have revealed that they are perplexed by the lack of forced entry and no visible causes of death. Nancy Clayton, reporting to you live at 6:57am."

Shakespeare's birthplace; a quaint town on the River Avon where some of the world's greatest works had sprung into being. And now, a set of horrific murders. Hermione wondered vaguely if they would be buried near the playwright, but that fanciful thought was whisked away when she allowed herself to properly consider the implications of the news. No forced entry, no visible causes of death.

The chill in her stomach returned.

A dignified looking barn owl delivered her copy of the _Sunday Prophet _at 7 o'clock exactly, and Hermione couldn't fight the shaking in her fingers as she tore it free. Sunday, 18th August 2002 read the date, and below it, in large black letters:

MUGGLES MURDERED IN STRATFORD-UPON-AVON BY THE KILLING CURSE

All at once, Hermione found herself back in 1996. This was how it had begun last time, with deaths and disappearances. She was a fool, a complacent fool who had allowed herself to become soft in the four years since the war ended. With her wand held in a white knuckled grip, Hermione marched to the fireplace and tossed a handful of Floo powder onto the dying embers. Flames erupted in an emerald wall, allowing Hermione to shove her head into it and announce 'Twelve, Grimmauld Place!' Her knees remained planted firmly on the carpet, but she felt her upper body twist and sway through the Floo network.

"Hermione?"

"Harry!" she cried through a mouthful of soot. "I just saw the _Prophet. _Are you and the other Aurors investigating?"

"The Stratford-upon-Avon killings? We're all going in this morning for a meeting with Robards and Kingsley about it," Harry said. Through the fireplace, Hermione could make out his blurry outline as he hopped into her line of sight. He had clearly just dressed, and was in the process of pulling on his other shoe.

"What does this mean, Harry? He couldn't be… He couldn't be back, could he?"

"Hermione, you saw me kill him, and you saw the body." Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, still bleary-eyed from sleep. "As awful as this is, I'm almost certain it's just a deranged pureblood supremacist. Just to be safe, though… can you come keep Ginny company?"

Hermione distinctly heard an indignant voice in the background claim that she didn't need babysitting, but she couldn't hear Harry's reply— he had left the room, no longer hopping. Without bothering to dress herself, Hermione pulled her dressing gown tighter and seized another fistful of Floo powder.

Autumn had come early to the kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Pumpkin and cinnamon scents laced the air, emanating from a simmering cauldron placed over a merrily crackling fire. The familiar house elf that normally manned the kitchen, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Ginny?" Hermione called tentatively.

"Sitting room."

What had previously been a dreary space infested with Doxies and cursed artefacts was now a sunny room painted mint green. Not dissimilar to the Burrow, the sitting room had mismatched, but comfortable looking furniture strewn about— in one such armchair sat Ginny Weasley, gazing sullenly out the window while a purple Pygmy Puff dozed contentedly in her lap. The witch had sheets of long red hair hanging down her back, pulled away from her face in a low ponytail. Hermione padded slowly around the sitting room, her slippers sinking into the fluffy rug underfoot.

"Where's Kreacher?"

"At Hogwarts, helping the other house elves for the start of the school year." Ginny leapt to her feet and dislodged Arnold, who gave a frightened squeak as he toppled to the carpet. Her eyes were blazing with frustration as she began to pace. "It's like he doesn't think I'm a perfectly capable witch in my own right! I was part of the DA, I fought at the Battle of Hogwarts. And if I had wanted to, I could've become an Auror… So what if I wanted to pursue Quidditch?"

Hermione knew that Ginny's tirade wasn't referencing Kreacher.

"Gin… Harry's just worried about you, that's all."

"I'm his fiancée, not his daughter," Ginny muttered, before slumping back into her chair.

Half a dozen framed photographs were pinned to the wallpaper, their inhabitants waving and smiling out at Hermione as she wandered past. A sad smile stole her lips— there was baby Teddy, chubby little arms flailing while Remus and Tonks smiled from either side of his cot. Beside it, a photo of the Weasley family beamed in front of a distant pyramid. Hermione was being helped into one of the enchanted boats on her final day at Hogwarts, accompanied by Ginny and Luna.

"How long do you think he'll be?" The anger had leached from Ginny's tone, leaving the witch sounding quiet and anxious.

Hermione breathed out a soft sigh, and moved to grasp Ginny's hand. "I don't know, but I'll be here as long as it takes."

Neither witch said a word as the minutes ticked by. A far off cuckoo clock marked the hour, and Hermione had just opened her mouth to speak when a stag Patronus came soaring into the room. Ginny's grip around her fingers turned painful as it spoke in Harry's voice.

"Lucius Malfoy is dead," it said. "We need you at the Ministry, Hermione. You may need to become an Auror after all."


	2. Scrimgeour's Prediction

Hermione exited the fireplace in a roar of emerald flames, only to be greeted by a large gaggle of reporters. At their head stood none other that Rita Skeeter, complete in a set of lurid fuschia robes that matched her lipstick. The very sight of her bejeweled spectacles had Hermione's fingers itching for her wand, but she resisted the temptation and began to shoulder her way along the length of the Atrium. Reporters trotted to keep up with her brisk strides, peppering her with questions all the way to the elevators.

"Miss Granger! What comments do you have about the death of Lucius Malfoy?"

"Is his murder connected with the Muggle killings in Stratford-upon-Avon?"

"Can I have your autograph?"

"Do you fear for your personal safety with Rodolphus Lestrange escaped from Azkaban?"

The last question caught her off guard, and Hermione felt herself stumble as she stepped into the nearest elevator. Thankfully, no reporters were able to catch more than a glimpse of her shocked expression before she was whisked upwards at a dizzying speed. Rodolphus Lestrange, escaped? She wasn't even aware that there had been a break out.

"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services," said a cool female voice beside Hermione's ear, right as the grille slid open.

Her kitten heeled shoes clipped sharply against the polished floorboards as she hurried down a long corridor, towards where a set of heavy oak doors sat. She blasted them open with a wave of her wand, and was greeted by a room full of startled looking witches and wizards. All movement around the cubicles had stopped, as though they were afraid to resume— Hermione supposed she must be quite a sight, with her hair flying in all directions and a half mad expression on her face.

"Where is Harry Potter?" she demanded.

"I'm right here, Hermione. Can we, er… talk in my cubicle?"

She allowed herself to be pulled behind a partition, which hid a small desk and noticeboard from the rest of the Auror Office (which, Hermione could hear, had resumed its daily workings). Staring down at her from every inch of available space were Death Eaters: dead, alive, missing, and captured. A shudder rippled through her as her eyes skimmed over Dolohov's leering photograph.

"Is it true? Has Lestrange escaped?"

Harry was avoiding her gaze, and Hermione felt the coils of dread churn in her gut. Eventually, in a barely audible mumble, he said, "Lestrange… as well as Greyback, Dolohov, and the Carrows. They overpowered two of the Aurors on watch, grabbed their wands…"

Hermione was no longer listening. She had staggered to one side, and had to catch herself on Harry's desk to keep from keeling over altogether. Five highly dangerous Dark Wizards, all escaped at once… "The Aurors, what happened to them?"

"Silverling is dead, but Fennel was able to get away. He's in St Mungo's now, being treated for that same curse Dolohov got you with in the Department of Mysteries." Harry speared a hand through the front of his already messy hair, and Hermione's heart gave a small pang. He looked so old and weary, with stress casting his face in harsh relief. "Robards is concerned they'll reconvene with Death Eaters that managed to evade capture after the War, like Yaxley. Neville's been responsible for tracking any remaining Snatchers, and he says there's enough of them left to put up a fight."

"What about Lucius Malfoy? Where does he fit into all of this?"

Harry's lips settled into a grim line. "You had better see it for yourself."

* * *

Knockturn Alley had been cordoned off by a veil of thick blue fog, which rippled and parted as Hermione and Harry approached, before resealing once the pair had passed through. It was now midmorning, and Hermione could feel sweat prickling uncomfortably under the collar of her robes.

"I will warn you, it's quite gruesome-"

"I can handle it, Harry. Where is he?"

Harry wordlessly motioned a short way down the street, where half a dozen Aurors were patrolling around a dark, misshapen lump crumbled on the flagstones outside Borgin and Burkes. On closer inspection, Hermione could see a mane of white blond hair matted with blood, around which was scrawled the word-

"Traitor? As in… blood traitor? I thought the Malfoys had maintained their prejudices even after they lost the war."

"They've reformed— or at least appeared to, in the public eye. But I don't think that's what it's referring to. If you see here-" Malfoy's sleeve twitched back as Harry brought his wand near, revealing a mess of blood and shredded skin on his left forearm. "His Dark Mark's been peeled off. I think, and Robards agrees with me, that he's been targeted by Death Eaters for abandoning Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts."

Crouching down, Hermione took a closer look at Malfoy's snake head walking stick, which had skittered a short distance away from his corpse. He hadn't even drawn his wand, which she knew to be concealed within the cane, and Hermione felt a strange swoop of sadness. She hated this man, not only for the part he played in the war (including locking her up in his cellar), but for how vile he and his family had been towards everyone they deemed beneath them. And yet, to see him so undignified, spread eagled and broken on the side of a street… No one deserved that.

"If they targeted Malfoy for being a traitor, they may go after others. The rest of his family, and some of the other purebloods who abandoned the cause." Hermione uncoiled to her feet, being careful to sidestep the puddle of blood. "Has a potential victims list been drafted?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, 'Mione. I've already mentioned it to Robards, but I think you should take the investigative lead on this case."

An incredulous laugh escaped her. "Me? Harry, I work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Just last week, I came this close," She held up her thumb and forefinger, hovering a hair's breadth apart, "To convincing the Head to give house elves a liason office. I can't just abandon it now, consider all of the hard work with S.P.E.W. that's been leading up to this moment. I-"

"Hermione, I respect all of the work you've been doing, I really do. But this— getting rid of the last remnants of Voldemort and his following— is the most important thing right now. You're the brightest witch of our age," He talked over her, when Hermione attempted to disagree. "And we need your help with this. I need your help with this."

"I'm not even an Auror."

"We're going to be recruiting. This threat needs to be dealt with once and for all, or else no one— especially not house elves— will be safe."

Harry hardly ever asked for help, and Hermione knew that. Convincing him to let her and Ron accompany him on the hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes had been almost as difficult as finding the Horcruxes themselves. He looked so earnest, standing there, and her mind was already piecing together information at a frantic pace… So she agreed, only a little reluctantly, to do the thing she promised Scrimgeour she would never do: join the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.


	3. Malfoy Manor

"Are you alright, Hermione?"

It had been a few weeks since Lucius Malfoy's death, and all was quiet. Deceptively so, in Hermione's opinion. She could feel a migraine pulsing behind her left eyebrow, fuelled by frustration at being no closer to finding Malfoy's murderer, or the wizard who had killed those three Muggles on August 18th. As the witch opposite her spoke, Hermione reluctantly tore her gaze from the papers and reports that were strewn across her desk.

Luna's skin was sunkissed and golden, compared to Hermione's wan complexion. She had spent the summer in Asia studying Occamies, and a plethora of other creatures that Hermione had never heard of and was not entirely convinced existed.

"If you overwork yourself, you may become susceptible to a Spraxie infection," Luna said with a sage nod. "You should really rest more."

"You know I can't do that, Luna. Not until something comes of this investigation."

Even though in comparison to the War there hadn't been many deaths, the Ministry wasn't taking any chances. Not with the escape of Voldemort supporters, and a targeted attack against one they deemed a traitor. The Auror Department was determined never to be caught off guard with low numbers again, which was why, with Harry's help, the Head of the Auror Office had started to recruit capable witches and wizards who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. One such witch was Luna, who had returned from globetrotting as soon as she had received Harry's owl.

"Things will be clear soon," said Luna serenely, before rising to her feet with a mild, curious expression. She didn't seem perturbed in the least by the grim circumstances of her return to England. "Oh, I do hope Harry will provide refreshments at this meeting. I'm really very hungry."

Luna's wish came true. The small meeting room Harry had convened them in had a few plates of club sandwiches available, which she happily munched on as everyone gathered in a loose circle. Hermione recognised many faces from her school days— most in the meeting were past members of the DA. Dean gave her a small wave before he, like everyone else in the room, turned his attention to Harry. Beside him stood a middle aged wizard with silver streaking his close cropped hair.

"Thank you all for coming," the wizard said, taking a small step forwards. "My name is Gawain Robards, Head Auror. As you all know, after the War, the Minister for Magic waived all of the entry requirements into the Auror Office. However, you will all need to undergo Auror training, which typically takes three years. However," He held up a hand, which Hermione could see was flecked with old scars. "Due to the direness of the situation, we will attempt to cover the essentials over the next few months. Are there any questions?"

"Sir, will Hit Wizards have to repeat combat training?"

"Good question, Finnigan. Hit Wizards won't be required to undergo training in magical combat and defence, but if you can help Potter train the others, that would be appreciated."

There was a murmur of general assent around the twenty or so people gathered, before Harry stepped forwards and they fell silent again.

"The training will be hard," he began. "But I know that you'll all be able to keep up with it. It'll be like the DA." A faint grin appeared on his lips, returning his face to its previous youth. "Hermione and I are investigating, but I will also be running some training sessions alongside Head Robards and Minister Shacklebolt. First one is tomorrow at 9 o'clock sharp, so I'll see you all then."

"Meeting adjourned," said Robards, but before Harry and Hermione were able to follow the crowd trickling out into the hallway, he called them aside.

"I wanted to leave this until after the meeting, but there's something you two ought to know." Robards, who usually bore a stoic expression, suddenly looked quite grim. "We received word that two Muggleborns were killed in their homes in Bath last night. The initial reports are on your desk, Granger, and I would like you to look into them. Potter, take Longbottom and one of the Hit Wizards to investigate further."

Harry walked her all the way to her office— she was not in the shared Auror cubicles, but a separate room that was hidden behind a handsome mahogany door with a brass handle. They exchanged no words; what was there to be said, in light of such a revelation?

Luna was seated in front of Hermione's desk, winding a strand of blonde hair around one finger. She glanced up as the pair of them entered, and offered them both a dreamy smile.

"Hello, Harry, it's been quite a while. Oh dear, something awful has happened, hasn't it?"

"I'd better get to Bath," Harry muttered, unable to meet either witch's eyes. After a brief, silent embrace with Hermione, he hastily left her office and clicked the door shut behind him.

Luna's expression had lost its dreamy quality entirely; such seriousness did not look at home on the witch's pretty features. She was no longer resting comfortably in her seat, but leaning forwards with her elbows on her knees.

"Robards left reports," said Hermione quietly, approaching her desk as though it were a Blast-Ended Skrewt that she must be wary of. Two innocuous looking folders were sitting there, emblazoned with the Ministry of Magic insignia.

Hermione expected that she might find the contents upsetting, but she did not anticipate that the information would land like a punch to her solar plexus. The reports slid from her fingers and landed on the desk with a muffled whisper of paper against wood. It was the only sound in the room for a long while, until Luna eventually whispered, "Hermione?"

"They…" She pressed her fingers to her lips, half to stop them from shaking, and half to prevent a sob from escaping. "The Dark Mark was hovering over their homes. It's the Death Eaters, they're back and they're…. They're targeting Muggleborns. Just like last time."

"You and Harry will catch them. Daddy says that all of the papers are calling you the brightest witch of-"

"I'm not! I'm not like Mad-Eye, or Tonks, or any of those great Aurors. I read a lot of books, and I read all of these reports," She shoved them roughly off her desk, where they exploded before hitting the ground— hit by a blast of unintentional magic. "But that doesn't bring me any closer to actually catching these monsters! I don't know how to track their movements until it's too late and they've killed someone."

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" At Hermione's blank expression, Luna continued in her infuriatingly calm voice. "You need to find someone who knows their patterns and their personalities."

"That someone would have to be a Death Eater."

Luna blinked her protuberant eyes, with an expression of polite expectancy.

"You can't mean… Luna, no. Absolutely not. He's selfish, and would never consent to helping the Ministry."

"You can't know until you ask." And with that, Luna graced Hermione with a distant smile before wandering idly from the room.

* * *

She seemed to spend longer in the crushing dark of Apparition than usual, as though her magic was as reluctant to reach her destination as she was. A long drive, bordered on either side by thick hedges, curved away into the distance, hidden behind an imposing wrought iron gate. Hermione could see the metal glittering with what she suspected to be ancient and highly powerful wards.

Frog song was all that could be heard for those first few moments, before a pronounced _crack _rent the afternoon air. Hermione started, searching behind her for the source of the noise, before someone cleared their throat with a delicate little cough. It was with some surprise that Hermione noted a tiny house elf standing behind the gates with its spindly arms folded over a tasseled pillowcase.

"Why has Miss visited Malfoy Manor?"

"Hello," said Hermione, her voice shaking only slightly. "Is anyone home?"

The gates swung open, seemingly of their own accord, and Hermione felt her stomach sink. Through sheer force of will, she placed one foot in front of the other, and began to follow the house elf as it tottered up the drive and out of sight. Gravel crackled underfoot, though she maintained an unhurried pace— what reason was there to rush, when the scene of her nightmares was getting closer with every step?

White peacocks strutted between gaps in the hedges. Hermione found them oddly charming, despite the aristocracy they personified, and was so busy searching for the next one that she almost walked right into her guide.

"Stay right here, Miss, Keesey will tell Mistress that Miss has come to visit."

The last thing that Hermione saw before Keesey disappeared through the manor's intricately carved front door was the Malfoy crest. The elf wore it like a badge of pride on her pillowcase, and Hermione was somewhat intrigued to note that she seemed content. A far cry from what Dobby had been, when Harry had freed him from the Malfoy family's cruelty.

Because Hermione had been expecting to see Keesey when the front door opened again, it staggered her to see Narcissa Malfoy framed against a dark, but lavishly decorated entrance hall. The witch had been undoubtedly beautiful before the War; all refined elegance and style. She had maintained that beauty, even with age, though there was grief limning the planes of her face that Hermione did not fail to notice.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Malfoy. May I speak with your son?"

Narcissa remained quiet for a few moments, and Hermione was rather relieved to have not been invited inside. When she did speak, it was in clipped voice, but one that lacked the cold superiority Hermione was used to from the Malfoy matriarch.

"Draco does not live here, and hasn't since his seventh year at Hogwarts. Is this official Ministry business, Miss Granger?"

Hermione was not in Ministry robes, but her professional life was no secret from the wizarding world. Neither she, Harry, nor Ron had been spared from the public eye in the years since the War had ended; everything from their romantic lives to what shoes Hermione preferred to wear was scrutinised by anyone who got their hands on _Witch Weekly _or, on less frequent occasions, the _Daily Prophet._

"It is, Mrs Malfoy. Could you please provide me with his new address?"

"He's already spoken with those Aurors about Lucius' death. What more could you want with him?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

The two witches stared across at one another, tawny eyes against blue. When Narcissa reached for her wand, Hermione was startled to find that she was prepared for a duel, with her own wand warm against her fingertips. But the older witch merely summoned a piece of parchment, and enchanted it to bear an address in a spidery script. Hermione slowly slipped her hand from the pocket of her robes to accept it.

"Thank you, Mrs Malfoy."

But Narcissa had already closed the door.


	4. Old Dog, New Tricks

9 o'clock the next morning had Hermione standing in front of a row of handsome white townhouses. The surrounding street was quiet, save for leaves rustling against one another in a light breeze, and she allowed herself to simply stand there, gazing up at where an elaborate gold sign read _Number Three, Royton Avenue. _Nerves writhed in her stomach— she had been unable to eat that morning because of them, and she cursed herself for it.

Draco Malfoy's home was nestled in the heart of a Muggle neighbourhood. The irony was not lost on her, but she didn't have time to dwell on it as she gathered her Gryffindor courage and strode up towards the front door. Just as she had lifted a hand to knock, a very pretty, flustered witch came tumbling out in a cloud of amethyst fabric and floral scented perfume.

"That prat is in a _foul _mood," she spat while smoothing down her dress robes. Hermione could see smudges of last night's make up around her eyes, but quickly averted her gaze. "Good luck, you're going to need it."

The loud _crack _of her Disapparation sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise quiet avenue. Now feeling thoroughly sick from apprehension, Hermione nudged the slightly ajar door with her shoulder and slipped inside. In passing the threshold— though whatever wards and protective enchantments Malfoy had put in place— it was as though she had stepped through a wall of hot air.

Hermione did not know what she had been expecting of his house. Dark, Victorian style decor like that of Malfoy Manor, perhaps? Whatever the case, she had not been expecting the clean, subtle interior that greeted her. Immediately through the front door was a short flight of stairs, which opened up into a modern, minimalistic living room with little decor save for a baby grand piano in one corner. Malfoy himself was nowhere in sight, so Hermione felt comfortable briefly looking around.

It could have been a Muggle's apartment, she thought with no small amount of surprise. There were no photographs or paintings in the entire room, and the only indication that a wizard lived there at all was a set of small bronze scales that seemed to contain a gas of some kind. Hermione had just prodded it with the tip of her wand when she felt someone enter the room behind her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Despite herself, she couldn't stop a small sound from escaping her lips as she spun towards the voice. Malfoy was leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded across a plain white dress shirt. His face— the same pale and pointed one Hermione remembered— was twisted into a bad tempered scowl.

"I… sorry," she mumbled, hastily stepping away from the scales. "The door was open, and I think there may be something wrong with your wards…"

"Mother sent an owl, when you visited her yesterday." Stalking forwards, his lips were pursed in such a way that told Hermione she wasn't wholly welcome. "I couldn't exactly have you blasted out on your arse and a Caterwauling Charm waking up the whole street. I'm already on thin fucking ice without having the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad on my doorstep."

Hermione cleared her throat and gestured to the scales, which were beginning to exude a soft chartreuse smoke. "What is it?"

"Evaporated essence of mandragora," Malfoy began reluctantly. "To make it easier for its application in-"

"Most antidotes known to wizardkind," she finished for him, failing to note how his brows arched. "How did you manage to keep it from condensing? Whenever I try-"

"Why are you here, Granger?"

Hermione closed her mouth with an audible click of her teeth. She had almost forgotten, in her academic enthusiasm, that she had arrived with a specific task in mind. All at once the nerves returned, and she swiveled slowly to face her childhood bully.

"The Ministry has need of someone with insider knowledge-"

"I'm not sure if this was obvious, Granger, but my family isn't exactly the most popular-"

"Do not interrupt me." Hermione's voice came out steady and calm, and she watched Malfoy fall silent with a faint sense of satisfaction. "The Ministry has need of someone with insider knowledge on how the Death Eaters operate. You know their patterns, their personalities, and what motivates them."

"As do the children of all Death Eaters." Malfoy's tense posture had not eased— if anything, he seemed even more aloof than when Hermione had first entered. "You must have been expecting the age-old question, Granger: what's in it for me? The Ministry has been of no help to me over the past four years."

Except for sparing you and your parents from Azkaban, Hermione thought snidely. Compared to the rest of Voldemort's followers, the Malfoys had fared extraordinarily well in the years since the War. While their previous allies found themselves with life sentences in Azkaban or forced into hiding, the Malfoys were able to live in their private manor and continue rearing albino peacocks. Aside from their Dark artefacts and half a million Galleons in reparations, they had been permitted to retain all of their assets, as well.

Hermione said none of this, however. Though she would never admit it, and certainly not to Malfoy himself, he was the most valuable fount of knowledge she had in this investigation.

"Would lifting the _Prohibemus _enchantments tempt you at all?" she asked coolly.

She could see Malfoy's nostrils flare; evidently, mentioning the Ministry-imposed travel restrictions placed on all ex-Death Eaters and their families had struck a nerve. _Prohibemus _was an invention of Professor Flitwick, put into effect with the help of Mafalda Hopkirk. It worked in a similar fashion to the Trace, except it alerted the Ministry when any marked persons left the country.

Malfoy clenched his jaw a few times, as though chewing on his words. "Would you lift my mother's as well?"

"I would consider it."

"Then I will consider your request. You can leave now, Granger."

So she did.

Traveling back to the Ministry was a much faster journey than the one to Number Three, Royton Avenue. Hermione felt lighter, Apparating as smoothly as an otter through water, and landed in the Atrium with a spring in her step. She had been dreading her conversation with Malfoy, and even leaving without a definitive answer could not damper the relief she felt at being free from his suffocating apartment. Though the wizard had seemed milder in terms of his prejudices, his tone led her to believe that he was just as cold and arrogant as before.

It was only when she was halfway along the length of the Atrium that Hermione realised she was late to Harry's training session. It would have been a quicker, easier path to make directly for the lifts, but they were predictably blocked by a group of reporters. Hermione imagined them as a shoal of piranhas, waiting for an unsuspecting Ministry official to stumble unfortunately into their hunting ground. Determined to avoid them, she darted sideways and into one of the many hallways branching off from the Atrium's main chamber. She had chosen the perfect path; a narrow, winding maintenance corridor that snaked parallel to the Atrium and delivered her directly in front of the lifts.

"Miss Granger!" came the reporters' cries, but by then her lift was already ascending to the second floor.

* * *

"Concentrate, Hermione!"

A curse narrowly missed her head as she ducked away, and Hermione guiltily brought her attention back to the present. Her thoughts had absconded in the middle of their duel, finding Dark Marks and murdered Muggleborns to be a more pressing issue than the _Protego _charm.

"What's happened to you?" Harry called, frustration clear in his voice. "First you walk in late, and now you're not even paying attention. You could get seriously hurt!"

"I'm sorry, Harry." Wand drooping limply at her side, she brought her free hand up to massage a headache blooming in her temple. "I've been thinking about the case, and what I can do to help."

"You can't allow yourself to become distracted," Harry said quietly, his voice having lost its edge. "Carry on, the rest of you!"

Jets of light were being exchanged between trainee-Aurors all around them— the ones that hit their mark resulted in a brief pause while the victor revived their opponent. In between these lulls, Harry and Hermione made their way to a corner of the large hall, where they were shielded by a powerful protective enchantment. Hexes hit the invisible barrier and dissipated into nothing; Hermione focused on the bright spots of colour as Harry continued speaking quietly to her.

"You fought in the Department of Mysteries, and the Battle of Hogwarts. Ron and I wouldn't have survived all those months hunting Horcruxes without you. But you won't be able to help anyone if you're killed because you weren't paying attention in a duel. Get out of your own head, Hermione."

"I know, I know." The ache at her temple throbbed like a steady, painful heartbeat. "This past week, I've been considering making some more coins like I did for the DA."

"Brilliant, I'm sure Robards will approve. Now come on, we've got a quarter of an hour left to practice, and you need it."

She slapped his arm good naturedly, and Harry shot her a mischievous grin. Stepping out from the protective enchantment, Hermione found herself matching him hex for hex, curse for curse. She came close to besting him once or twice, but Harry had always been better at Defence Against the Dark Arts of the two.

"If Malfoy consents to helping the Ministry, will he have to undergo Auror training as well?"

Harry faltered, and failed to block Hermione's stinging hex. He hissed and shook his burned hand, but waved off her attempts to help.

"I'm fine, 'Mione. What's this about Malfoy?"

"It's been weeks, and we're no closer to finding those escaped Death Eaters. So I… I visited him this morning, to see if he would help us."

"They're lying low, but we'll catch them next time they-"

"Next time they what, Harry? Kill more Muggleborns?" Stillness had begun to settle over the hall as duelling pairs turned to watch— but even once a small crowd had amassed, Hermione had eyes only for her friend, who was looking part way between mulish and ashamed. "We need someone who can help us unpick how these people operate."

"You could have picked any Slytherin, and you had to choose _Malfoy?"_

"He's the only one that took the Mark, and you said so yourself that they've reformed-"

"I said they had appeared to!" Red sparks sputtered from his wand as Harry threw up his hands. "Think about the last time we saw Malfoy, in the Room of Requirement. His mates tried to kill you!" Shame had made way for exasperation and complete incredulity, as though Hermione had lost her wits entirely. "If you think I'm going to work with that git-"

"I will take full responsibility for him. It was my idea, and if it turns out to be a disaster… then I will face the consequences. If you have a better idea, then please, enlighten me."

Harry twirled his wand between his fingers, but did not speak. She could sense his agitation, from the stiff line to his shoulders and the way he held his feet, but those symptoms cleared when Ginny's voice rose from the crowd.

"Hermione knows what she's doing. And if Malfoy steps out of line, you get to hex him, so it's a win-win scenario, really."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Hermione had never been more grateful for Ginny's ability to defuse a delicate situation. The witch tipped her a subtle wink, while ambling to Harry's side to loop their arms together. He looked conflicted.

"Fine," said Harry eventually. "He will have to come to training with the rest of us. I'll tell Kingsley and Robards— while Malfoy may be your responsibility, you are mine. So Hermione," The hall was filled with the sounds of people packing up and shuffling towards the exit, so Hermione had to strain to hear him. "Be careful, alright?"

"I'll tell you if he so much as breathes offensively," she assured him as she tucked her wand into the back pocket of her jeans. "If he even consents to helping us, and that is a rather large if."

Harry's lip quirked upwards. Hermione wasn't sure if it was in a smile, or a grimace.

* * *

The timepiece on Hermione's desk said it was five in the evening when a purple memo zoomed into her office. It had been a gift from Luna for her twentieth birthday— a miniature pendulum clock, stuck into the sand at the bottom of an empty fish bowl. Although there was no water, on the hour an enchanted goldfish would swim a lap before disappearing in a puff of white smoke.

Hermione placed her quill to one side so as to catch the weakly fluttering memo. Stamped across the top in a neat typewriter font were the words: FORWARDED FROM OWL MAIL. Below, spiky lettering carved out a blunt but not ineloquent letter.

_Granger, _the letter began. _I have a few conditions to our arrangement._

_DM._


	5. Flint

Coffee: black. Music: blaring. It was some Muggle tosh that Draco barely understood, but it was loud and it was angry; perfect for mornings that were sure to be shit. His nightly terrors hadn't left him alone the previous evening, not that he had expected they would. His father had made an appearance, screaming at him for being beaten in tests by a Mudblood— a word that Draco couldn't bring himself to say, even in the safety of his own thoughts. Lucius' features had morphed into the snakelike visage of the Dark Lord, who had released a high pitched laugh that forced Draco to wakefulness.

Traces of poor sleep were visible on his pallid features. Dark smudges of purple beneath his eyes, premature lines on either side of his mouth. _You look so much like your father, _his mother would always say. Draco was seized with the sudden urge to put his fist through the mirror. Instead, he made a quick pass over his head and shoulders with the tip of his wand— white blond hair darkened to rich brown, almost black, while facial hair sprouted across his chin and cheeks.

The Transfigurement lasted for the duration of his journey to the Ministry, and remained in place until he removed it himself just outside Granger's office. _Past Auror Headquarters, second door on your left, _her instructions had read, in handwriting that was… adequate, Draco supposed. _Avoid the press, they stalk the Atrium lifts. _Not a single reporter had even glanced his way as he strode past in his simple disguise. Not even Rita Skeeter, who bragged in her columns that she had an _intimate insight _into the psyche of the Malfoy heir.

Granger's office was small but not cramped, Draco noted as he entered without knocking. There were no personal effects in the room save for a bizarre, empty fishbowl on the rosewood desk, though he assumed that most of the books crammed into a bookshelf on the far wall were hers. It was a clean and impersonal space— Draco could appreciate that.

The witch in question had her back to the door, fretting over a board that was attended to by pieces of chalk writing out her theories of their own accord. She did not seem to have heard him enter, but whirled around with her wand drawn when the door clicked closed behind him.

"A bit on edge, are we, Granger?"

"You would be, too, if you had Death Eaters to catch." Granger had recovered quickly, and now seemed more annoyed than anything else. "In the future, I would appreciate it if you knocked."

"I _do _have Death Eaters to catch— or have you already forgotten our agreed upon conditions?"

The witch huffed air through her nose and turned away from him. Ordinarily, such a response would leave Draco bad tempered, but he merely felt amusement as he watched the back of Granger's bushy haired head. The pieces of chalk continued to scrawl out lines of text in front of her nose.

"No, I haven't forgotten," she murmured quietly, but did not turn to face him. "Your role in this will be kept quiet, as promised."

"And?"

"And, the _Prohibemus _enchantment on both yourself and your mother will be lifted."

"_And?"_

"And you can have your sodding potion ingredients! Five of your choosing from the Restricted Register is what we agreed on."

Draco paced forwards, smirking, until he and Granger stood next to one another with a metre of space between them. The blackboard spanned that distance, covered in tacked-up photographs and lines of slanted script depicting names, places, and theories that he could scarcely make sense of.

"Why don't you fill me in?"

Granger still had a crackling aura of frustration about her, but she gave a short, professional nod and pointed to a line of eight photographs at the centre of the board. The faces that loured down at him were chillingly familiar; he didn't need to be told their names, but she rattled them off anyway.

"Lestrange, Greyback, Dolohov, and the Carrows all escaped from Azkaban in mid-August. They have likely reconvened with Rookwood, Yaxley, and Macnair," her finger strayed to the latter end of the photographs, "who have been evading Ministry capture since the Battle of Hogwarts. Neville suspects that remaining Snatchers may be sympathetic to them, and we all agree that every Slytherin student who finished Hogwarts in the late 90's is worth investigating."

She must have caught sight of his affronted expression, for she went on with very pointed eye contact. "Yes, _every _Slytherin. In sixth year, Harry was adamant that you were a Death Eater, but Ron and I wouldn't listen."

Draco felt his throat sting with sudden bile. It was a legacy from which he could never escape, yet to hear her speak of it so frankly in her close, clean office was somehow much more confronting than hearing wizards whispering in the streets. His mother bore the gossip, never breaking her serene manner, and continued with her high society functions as though the Malfoy family had never witnessed a fall from grace. Draco had learned to ignore the hisses, the hurried crossings of streets, and the protective holding of childrens' hands, but Granger's words caused a lapse in his perfect, porcelain façade.

She seemed to realise it, too. Her lips tightened at the corners and she looked away, but Draco was relieved to note that not an ounce of pity shone in her eyes.

"Yes, well," he began, in a voice that was strangely hoarse. "I wouldn't know what any of my schoolmates are up to these days."

"You haven't kept in touch?" Granger seemed surprised— there was likely not a single witch or wizard from her time at Hogwarts that she didn't write to regularly, or see on a daily basis. Draco wasn't quite certain if he envied or pitied her. "What about Pansy Parkinson?"

The personal question caught him off guard. He could see that a pink flush had risen to Granger's cheeks, and suspected that the question had slipped out before she had a chance to catch it. The thought sent a spark of mirth through him that roused a rare smirk.

"Parkinson? No." As amusing as her embarrassment was, he spared Granger the weight of his gaze and instead looked to the line of photographs. They were a sobering sight; his smile soon slipped. "I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts in four years, except for Blaise."

"You're going to have to become reacquainted."

She shoved a manila folder into his arms with enough force to send him stumbling back a few steps. It wasn't enough to knock the wind from him, but he felt just as disgruntled. Granger was the same, then, and compensating for her personal prying with an excessively brusque demeanour. Opening an identical folder, she cleared her throat and arched a brow, urging him to do the same.

"What we need you to do is track down fellow Slytherins and subtly cross them off the Ministry's suspect list. You'll find all relevant information— addresses, places of work, spouses, et cetera— in this folder. Do you have any questions?"

"You've covered everything quite comprehensively," Draco said in a sardonic drawl. He thumbed through the folder, which contained well over two dozen sheafs of paper. Each one had 'Private' scrawled down the side in red ink.

"Perfect." Granger paced to the door and held it open for him— a clear dismissal. "If you need any help, or have any questions, you know where to find me. Oh, and Malfoy." Draco paused in the doorway. "You'll be required to attend Auror training."

"I'm not planning on becoming an Auror."

"We know." A prim sniff. "The next one is on Friday. You're expected at 9 o'clock."

Draco made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, then strode from her office and out of sight.

_Auror training, _he thought with a sneer, with half a mind to refuse. The corridors were deserted, leaving him with a clear path to the Atrium; just before stepping into the cavernous space, he remembered to hastily re-Transfigure himself. It was a small change, merely enough to disguise his white blond hair, but again he went unaccosted. If Granger kept her side of the deal, there would be no need for him to learn to duel. His aunt Bellatrix had already done as much over his sixth and seventh year, in any case; granted, her methods and techniques were far more brutal than any of the spells the Ministry would employ.

But he would humour the idea, Draco decided as he flicked through the folder once more. Those Restricted Register ingredients were far too tempting to do anything but. Most of the names, he skimmed over with idle boredom. Bletchley, Bole, Bulstrode, Davis, Derrick. Boring names for boring people— he couldn't imagine a single one of them to be embroiled in what was going on. It was the sixth name that gave him pause: Flint. Marcus Flint, a savage Quidditch player who would have done more damage in the corridors of Hogwarts if he could perform the hexes. Perhaps he had learned a thing or two since graduating after the third attempt.

Far above Draco's head, the ceiling shifted. He could see it reflected in the polished, dark wood floor just before he Apparated to the address specified in the Ministry file. As his long legs carried him up a short, dark path through an overgrown garden, he distractedly wondered at being given unhindered access to private information without constant supervision. Either Granger trusted him completely (highly unlikely), or the Ministry really was desperate to make headway in this case. Caught up in his thoughts, Draco didn't immediately comprehend what was so strange about Flint's cold, dim house. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, wand tip already alight with blue, and peered around a cramped and musty kitchen.

That's when it struck him. He had been able to enter the building unhindered. Flint hadn't set up any enchantments… or perhaps there had been wards, once, that were now long since broken.

His _Lumos_ cast the contents of the house in a ghostly light. There wasn't much of note, merely a few shabby pieces of furniture with used plates littered between them. Animated, black and white pamphlets decorated a table which was, quite frankly, disgusting. Coated with grime, old food, and Salazar knew what else, Draco levitated one of the pamphlets to his hand as opposed to picking it up himself. As soon as the parchment touched his skin, the flowery script advertising Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover transformed into words that caused Draco's lip to curl. _**Mudbloods and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society.**_

It was an old publication, from Umbridge's time in the Ministry, but the simpering rose petal face remained as fresh as the day it was printed. Draco picked up another, then another, shoving each into the inside pocket of his robes.

_**Pureblood Protection League. How to Protect Your Bloodline from Infestation. Hunting Half Breeds: A Beginner's Guide.**_

He had seen more than enough. A _Homenum Revelio _charm revealed that neither Flint nor anyone else was in that shithole that somehow passed as a house, so Draco pocketed the last of the pamphlets and stepped out onto the street. After the gloom of Flint's hovel, the midday sun seemed unnaturally bright. Draco had just lifted a hand to shield his eyes when a searing pain suddenly shot through his arm. He made to rip away his sleeve, crying out as the limb gave another alarming throb, before loosing a harsh curse.

The Dark Mark, which usually lay pink, scarlike and dormant on his forearm, now burned jet black.


	6. Getting a Brazilian Hurts

Malfoy was waiting for her the next morning. He was lounging irreverently in a conjured armchair, looking for all the world like _she _had just wandered into _his _office.

"Good morning, Granger. I'm glad you could finally make it."

Her eyes darted over to Luna's fish bowl clock. Its longest hand indicated only a few minutes past 9 o'clock; admittedly later than her usual arrival time (she preferred to be at least ten minutes early), but certainly nothing to sniff at. She couldn't help a scowl from curling her lips as Malfoy closed the door behind her with a brisk flick of his wand.

"Please, have a seat." He nodded to the chair on the other side of the desk. _Her _chair.

"This is _my _office, Malfoy," she replied tartly, frustrated that, in order to sit, she had to comply. Her handbag hit the floorboards with a dull thud that was not nearly satisfying enough.

Malfoy simply regarded her over the top of his papers as though she were a first year in to see the Head of House. "Do you want to hear what I've uncovered, or not? I suppose if you're not interested, I could always leave the investigation to you…" He began to rise meaningfully from the plush armchair, and Hermione swallowed her pride. It went down like a spoonful of cinnamon.

"Go on."

A show was made of straightening his papers, every movement dripping with smugness. Hermione felt her eyelid begin to twitch.

"Graham Montague is still in St Mungo's, having suffered permanent brain damage after that little prank the Weasel twins pulled on him. Let's see… Nott and Flint's homes are both abandoned, but they're likely with the Death Eaters."

"What makes you say that? Perhaps they've been kidnapped."

Malfoy withdrew a handful of pamphlets with a flourish and slid them across the desk towards her. She picked one up and turned it over, confusion etched on every one of her features.

"... Madame Glossy's Silver Polish? I don't understand."

He snatched the parchment back and pointed impatiently to a stylised drawing of a cloth, which was bewitched to move in small, cleaning circles on the face of an already spotless candelabrum. At her continued expression of bemusement, he scoffed and muttered something under his breath.

"Yes, I _can _read," Hermione snapped, plucking it from his fingers and laying it flat on the desk between them. "It must be charmed. _Revelio._"

Like a spreading puddle of water, the pamphlet's concealment was stripped away. Hermione's stomach was a stone in her abdomen as the words _Pureblood Protection League _replaced the whimsical illustration.

"But why couldn't you see it before? When I touched it, the pamphlet-"

"It must only be activated when touched by a Pureblood," she said calmly, and Malfoy went abruptly quiet. Glancing up, Hermione saw him eye the pamphlets uneasily, and shift in his ridiculous, Slytherin-green armchair. Their eyes met— she thought that his were an oddly pale grey as instant, grim understanding passed between. Malfoy was the first to avert his gaze. He rose and walked stiffly over to the chalkboard, which was decorated by several new notes and photographs.

"I went to Pansy's house, but someone else lives there now. Muggle, not magical." Arms crossed, Malfoy refused to meet her eyes, even when she came to stand beside him facing the board. She watched him for a few moments— a muscle worked in his jaw, but other than that, he appeared unruffled. "Most Slytherins kept a low profile after the War, so not being able to find many doesn't concern me. I hope you'll take my word for it that Blaise Zabini isn't involved."

"He's too successful to risk it all on joining the Death Eaters," Hermione agreed, eyes flitting up to his photograph. A dark skinned, handsome young man peered down his nose at her, looking nearly as contemptuous as the real Zabini. "We were in the Slug Club together, briefly. I never thought he would develop such a passion for stationery."

"Blaise has a passion for Galleons," Malfoy said with a faint twitch of his lips. "But aside from the long chain of quill shops across Great Britain, he's recently bought Scrivenshaft's."

Hermione hummed lowly and reached up to remove Zabini from the investigation board. In doing so, she brushed against Malfoy, who let out a sharp hiss.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." Malfoy had clapped a hand over his forearm. His grey eyes held a resolute glitter in them, replacing his previous grimace of pain, and the look stirred Hermione's very stubborn inner lioness. "Let's just keep working."

"Show me your arm." She even went so far as to hold out her hand, but Malfoy merely drew further away.

"I said, it's nothing."

Who would win, between the lion and the snake? Malfoy's features were hewn from ice— cold and imperious, exactly as she remembered him at Hogwarts. Unbidden, a thought sprung to mind of him staggering backwards, having just been slapped across the face by her in third year. She flexed the fingers of her slapping hand.

"This will be much easier for you if you just-"

At that moment, the office door slammed open, cutting off Hermione's sentence. Harry stood in the doorway, beaming from ear to ear and looking slightly out of breath.

"Hermione! There's someone here you may want to see." He left as quickly as he had entered, leaving the other two in a silence fraught with tension.

"This is not over," Hermione vowed at last. She had flounced from the room before Malfoy had a chance to respond, and therefore missed his sneer.

The shock of red hair in the corridor was what drew her attention first. Then the freckled face, lanky frame…

"Ron! When did you get back to England?"

"Just this morning." Ron smelled warm and familiar as he enveloped Hermione in a friendly hug, and she couldn't help the swooping feeling in her stomach. "How are you, 'Mione? It's been ages!"

He was more tanned than Hermione remembered (then again, a year in Brazil would do that), and he had grown a short beard. Hermione pulled away to smile up at him, and that's when she noticed it. Cherry-red, lacquered nails on his forearm. They were attached to slender fingers, that led up a bronzed arm… finally, Hermione's eyes landed on the face of perhaps the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, aside from Fleur Weasley. Almond shaped eyes crinkled at the corners as the woman smiled towards Hermione with lips that were perfectly plump.

"Olá," she greeted brightly.

"Oh, yeah." Ron's face was tinged pink as he wrapped an arm around the woman's waist. "This is Alessandra… my fiancée."

"Fiancée," Hermione repeated with a weak laugh. "Wow… uh, congratulations!"

* * *

_Fiancée? _

Draco halted in the doorway where he had been… not _skulking, _for he was far too refined for that, but rather lingering as he waited for the scene to unfold. He was left momentarily speechless while Granger gave a curiously high pitched laugh that sounded anything but genuine.

It was strange— _everyone _in the Wizarding world knew about Potter and the lives of his little friends. He was engaged to Weaslette, Granger to Weasel, and they were all going to live happily ever after in matching cottages where their hordes of children could play in the front garden. So why was it he hadn't heard of a split through his mother, who read _Witch Weekly _religiously?

"She saved me from a group of Curupira in the Amazon. Bloody things caught me taking toucan eggs, and they would have made me lose the guy I was tracking if Ally here hadn't stepped in. She was bloody brilliant! Stunned the first one, got another right in the eye with a _Furnunculus_…"

Weasley was talking animatedly about how he finally caught the Dark wizard on the outskirts of a magical village, but went abruptly silent as Draco sauntered from the doorway with his hands in his trouser pockets. Mouth in a comical O, eyes wide, Draco hoped that he had fallen temporarily or permanently mute.

No such luck.

"What the hell is _he _doing here?"

No one said anything for a few moments until Granger stepped forwards. Her bushy brown hair was a loose cloud around her shoulders, and she kept tucking it nervously behind one ear as she said, "Malfoy has agreed to help us in the Death Eater investigation. Harry will be able to brief you-"

"I read the file." Draco fought back a disbelieving snort, earning him a glare from Weasley. "I read the file," he repeated, "And nothing in there said anything about a Death Eater being allowed to work in the Ministry."

"We can't exactly have Aurors walking up to suspects, Ron. They'll either get suspicious and run, or worse. We need Malfoy to be the one to approach them, because-"

"Because he's a ruddy Death Eater!"

"Actually, the Ministry cleared me of all charges," Draco drawled, his eyes lighting up with wicked delight when Weasley took an aggressive step forwards. His face was steadily becoming the same shade as his hair, body shaking like a kettle coming to the boil.

It took some soothing from Weasley's beautiful fiancée (whose name Draco had already forgotten) before the wizard's bristling posture subsided.

"I don't like it, 'Mione. The things he's done, the thing's he's _called you… _How do you put up with him?"

Draco's shoulders stiffened. Did the Weasel not realise that he was right there? He glanced at Potter, but the Auror seemed to be trying to sink into the wall behind him, leaving Granger to do all of the explaining. Typical.

"We're all adults, here, Ron," she was saying placatingly, with both hands raised as though trying to calm a startled horse. "I'm perfectly capable of being professional for the sake of this investigation, as is Malfoy."

They were all looking at him. Draco realised with a start that he was expected to say something, some sort of sign of agreement or cooperation— he caught Granger glaring at him, with pointed flicks of her eyes towards Potter and Weasley. The Weasley-to-be had been forgotten for the moment, clinging to her fiancé's arm and glancing between them as though they were all a few Knuts short of a Sickle.

"Perfectly capable," he parroted, with a short, mocking bow of his head.

Weasley's face was still puce, but Draco refrained from commenting that it was a rather fetching colour on him. Somehow, he figured that it would only inflame the situation again, and he was far more interested in interrogating Granger. For although she broke the tense silence by warmly introducing herself to the Weasley-to-be, he couldn't help noticing that her smile didn't quite reach her eyes in the same way it did when she spoke to her insufferable friends. In fact, when she turned away to return to her office, Draco reckoned that she seemed almost… sad.

"Well, what a lovely reunion." Draco's smile was bitingly sarcastic as he snapped the office door closed behind them. Potter had taken Weasley and future-Weaslette off to the main Auror Headquarters, leaving him and Granger to continue their side of the investigation— though he couldn't for the life of him remember where they had left off.

"Don't be sarky, Malfoy."

"I'm not being sarky!" Draco feigned offence, striding across to the enchanted chalkboard. "I greatly enjoyed that." And he had, though not for the sake of actually seeing them again. Getting under Weasley's skin just by being in the Ministry had put him in a rare good mood, and by the looks of it, Granger was put out by his sudden jubilance.

"Just… explain what else you found at Nott's house."

"Tell me, Granger," Draco began with a languid smile, ignoring her request. "Why is it you're not the one that's hanging off Weasley's arm? From my memory-"

"Not that it's any of your business, Malfoy," Granger said nastily, shutting him up with a black glare. "But our separation was mutual. Now show me what else you found."

At least she wasn't harping on about his arm anymore.

* * *

**A/N: I don't really like Dramione fics that Ron bash, making him out to be either an abusive arsehole or a lovesick idiot who's only response is "Grrrrr Malfoy!" I thought it would be an interesting take if it was Hermione who still had some feelings, but let me know in a review if you'd like to see more of that! Every time I get a review it motivates me to write more/write faster :)**


	7. Attacked

_Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap._

It was incessant and never ending. _Tap tap. _Granger's fingertip beat an uneven rhythm against the top of her rosewood desk, likely in time to the thoughts that were ticking through that clever, bushy haired head of hers. _Tap. _Her front teeth, Draco had noticed in the week since he had been working with the Ministry, were shorter than they had been at Hogwarts. Less beaver-like, but he still noticed them when she nibbled at her lower lip, deep in thought. _Tap tap tap. _

Granger's mind was wired for investigative work— then again, there was scarcely much that her mind wasn't wired for, except perhaps fashion. Draco's eyes trailed down to her feet, which were sticking out from under the desk. The sparkly, sequin covered flats had surprised him, and not pleasantly. He had always pinned Granger for a sensible bird with sensible clothes, if her cardigans and pencil skirts were anything to go by, and the (quite frankly) ugly shoes had actually made him stop in the doorway that morning. She hadn't noticed, too absorbed in Potter's latest report to even glance up as she mumbled a good morning.

_Tap tap. _

"Granger."

"Mm?"

"Will you stop it with the bloody tapping?"

The witch glanced up with an apologetic grimace, and curled the offending hand into a fist. Draco sighed quietly and tried to return to his own report. It was about none other than Gregory Goyle, who he had failed to find in the Merseyside shack that was listed as his address. Aside from a legal transcript, where Goyle was sentenced to six months in Azkaban for the robbery of a shop called Cobb & Webb's, there was little to nothing on the man.

_Tap tap tap tap._

Granger, who had a faint crease between her brows, was now rapping her knuckles against the desk, while silently mouthing Potter's report to herself.

"_Granger._"

"I'm _sorry. _It's just…" She was slow to admit it, as though unwilling to insult her friend. "Harry's writing is rather difficult to read."

Draco leaned across the desk and grabbed it from her hands, convinced that the witch was overreacting. Surely Potter's handwriting couldn't be _that _illegible…

"Merlin, this is awful. Why doesn't he just use a Self-Writing Quill and save everyone the headache?"

Granger gave a helpless shrug, now tapping those absurd, bedazzled shoes against one another. Aside from the Ministry insignia stamped at the top, Draco couldn't make out a word of the report, so handed it back to her with a quiet, derisive snort.

"No wonder everything at the Ministry happens so bloody slowly— you can't even decipher each other's memos."

Shrugging again, Granger absently swished her wand and sent the report flying into a nearby filing cabinet. "On Level Four, we type everything. The typewriters are bewitched to change ink colour based on what sort of note it is."

"Level Four… Magical Creatures?" Draco leaned back in his chair with his elbows draping over the sides. "Please don't tell me you continued with all that tripe about house elves. What was that group at Hogwarts called? Puke?"

"I'll have you know, S.P.E.W. became very successful!" Granger's voice had risen an octave in her indignation, and she sat a little higher in her seat. "The Department has become instrumental for the protection of house elf rights, and I would still be working there now, if I wasn't needed in the Auror Department."

"When will you people learn that elves don't want to be free? Fuck, they _enjoy _serving their families— you're just making them unhappy! I don't know what about that is so difficult to grasp."

Granger actually rose to her feet, then, and slammed her hands down on the desk with enough force to make Draco start. "When will _you _people learn that Elf Legislation is completely medieval!" They both glared at one another with narrowed eyes. "They deserve fair representation, protection, and suitable pay."

"Elves don't _want _to be paid in anything but kindness and recognition," he said with a scoff, relaxing against the seatback airily while Granger grew even more vexed.

"And what would you know about kindness, Malfoy?" she said waspishly. "You're a spoilt, Pureblood brat who grew up taking house elves for granted. And when it comes to abuse, your family went _beyond _what I would consider horrific."

A deadly silence fell over the office, punctuated only by the ticking of the miniature pendulum clock. _Tick. Tick. Tick. _It suddenly seemed absurdly loud.

Granger swallowed thickly. "I… I'm sorry, Malfoy. I didn't mean that."

"Oh yes, you did." Draco could feel a familiar numbness radiating from his chest, so complete that even the ticking stopped. "But what do you know about my life, Granger? Name one thing about my family, other than what people whisper behind my mother's back."

She stammered lamely, gaze flitting about the office as though looking for something to spare her from the flush that Draco could see creeping up her neck. He rose, very slowly, to his feet. Granger cringed away from him when he rested his knuckles on the top of her desk and leaned in close.

In a low, cold voice, he said, "When I was fourteen, I stopped my father from beating one of our elves. Guess who he hit instead? I couldn't walk for a _week _afterwards, and you stand there trying to tell me I don't _care_?" Something flashed in Granger's eyes that he didn't recognise. "You know nothing of my life beyond what you've read in the paper_._"

"I've been to your house… or have you forgotten," she said, almost too quietly for him to hear.

He hadn't forgotten, and the memory landed like a physical blow. Draco could feel countless words bubbling up inside him, but when they reached his tongue, none sounded right; none would be satisfying enough, or complete enough, so he didn't voice any at all. He left Granger in a tense, uncomfortable silence, stalking from her office and out of sight.

* * *

"You look like shit."

Draco grunted, and threw back another tumbler of firewhisky. "Do I?" It burned his throat on the way down, but five shots in, he found the sensation pleasant. Numbing.

"It's barely noon, mate. You sure you don't want to slow down?"

"If I wanted to be mollycoddled, I would have gone to my mother's house. I asked you to come and have a drink with me, Zabini, but if you've changed your mind, you can piss off."

Blaise sighed quietly through his nose, intelligent dark eyes tracking witches and wizards who were wandering past the pub's frosted glass windows. He took a long, slow sip of pumpkin juice. Outside, Knockturn Alley was uncharacteristically busy— in the years since the War, many of the shops closest to Diagon Alley had been repurposed, trading their shrunken heads for Butterbeer kegs, clothing racks, and bird cages. To find more… unconventional wares, one had to wander all the way down the street, to the more seedy back alleys that even Shacklebolt's progressive Ministry couldn't cleanse.

Draco wasn't sure if the blurred outlines through the window were from the frosted glass or his spinning head. The thought of someone seeing his father's shadow as he skulked up the street to Borgin and Burkes all those weeks ago made a bitter laugh rise in his chest. It came out in a weak rasp that made Blaise look at him sidelong.

"What's so funny?"

Draco slid his whisky tumbler from side to side on the pockmarked bar. "He was buying Dark artefacts when they did away with him, did you know that? Ever since the Ministry confiscated everything, he's been building up quite the collection."

"Your father?" Blaise had gone still, and was watching him intently. Instant irritation crawled over Draco's skin like a thousand insects, and he bad temperedly rose to his feet as though to shake them off.

"Of course my father, you tosser. Who else would I be talking about?"

"Don't bite my head off just because something pissed you off-"

"And you know," Draco continued loudly, cutting Blaise off mid sentence. People were beginning to stare, but through his alcohol-induced buzz, Draco found he didn't quite care. "Even when I heard that he'd croaked, the only thing that I was concerned about was my mother. Do you know what it's like to hate your father so much you don't even give a shit someone killed him?"

"I wouldn't know, would I? I never knew my father."

In his irascible state, the pleasant, heady effect of the whisky had faded to make Draco feel nothing but dizzy and sick. He dimly registered a bolt of regret for his harsh words, but before he could open his mouth to issue a _very _rare apology, a jet of red light sailed into the pub. It missed Blaise's head by no more than an inch, shattering the shelf of bottles behind him into nothing but dust. The last pieces settled on the floor right as people began to scream.

Any lingering drunkenness was stripped from Draco's mind like cobwebs. Curses flew through the room, striking down patrons indiscriminately and sending them sprawling to the floor. He roughly pushed Blaise down, out of the trajectory of a spell that left a shivering imprint in its wake, before roaring at him to leave.

"Go!" Dust and debris rained down, pattering harmlessly off of his conjured shield. "Get Granger!"

"Granger? Draco, what the hell are you-" A plume of flame scorched its way between them, and Blaise cringed even lower beneath the bar.

"Go to the Ministry. Just do it!"

The counter exploded as a spell hit it, leaving a splintered mess where Blaise had been just moments before Disapparating. Draco cast another protective barrier before charging out onto the taproom floor. Through the fleeing people and the flashes of light, he could make out a hulking, robed figure. People in the figure's path crumbled, falling victim to the vicious slashes of his wand.

"_Stupefy!_" Draco cried, but his opponent deflected the spell and sent it ricocheting into a mirror hanging on the wall behind him. Through a curtain of falling, shattered glass, Draco could see wand light glinting on a silver face.

Not a face… a mask.

Hatred coursed through him, so powerful he was staggered by it. Even though he couldn't see his assailant through their Death Eater's mask, the snakelike slits for eyes seemed to be mocking him, narrowed cruelly as spell after spell was sent spiralling his way. Draco met each curse, his wand and lips a blur as he murmured counters and attacks. Although slower than usual, through the lingering fog of whisky clouding his brain, Draco found he could keep up with the Death Eater. They were strangely lumbering in their movements, almost troll-like.

"Duck!" Draco shouted, forcing a little boy's head down as a Stunning Spell sped right for him. "Take your mother and leave-"

They both threw themselves to the floor; a jet of green light had narrowly missed Draco's ear. He could feel its killing power rippling across his skin. Anger, hot and fast, replaced the shock that had left him momentarily frozen.

"_Expulso!_" he bellowed, with enough force to send the Death Eater flying clear across the room. He hit a post by the entrance, connecting with unyielding wood and sliding to the floor. Draco's shoes crunched as he strode towards the feebly stirring wizard, who was still trying to wheeze curses from beneath his silver-lacquered mask. He shut up when Draco kicked him in the stomach, hard.

If this wanker thought a boot to the stomach was as bad as it came, he had another think coming. Draco reared back his leg, ready to make the Death Eater double over again, when he heard a series of cracks from the street outside.

"Malfoy!" Granger came bursting into the pub with her wand drawn, closely followed by Blaise and five other Aurors. "What happened?"

"Didn't Zabini tell you?" Draco palmed a trickle of blood from his chin. When had he started bleeding? "This cretin tried to kill me, and he very nearly succeeded."

Granger turned to the fallen Death Eater with her lips set in a resolute line. This was not the obstinate witch from that morning, but a cool, calm professional. She brusquely ordered two Aurors to interview the remainder of the pub's cowering inhabitants, before gingerly stepping over a body that had lain worryingly still for several minutes.

"Seamus, Apparate to St Mungo's and let them know what's happened. They could be expecting upwards of ten patients." Her countenance was grim as she crouched down and felt for the wizard's pulse. "It's weak but… he's alive. _Integrum somnum._" The spell sent golden light trickling from her wand tip. It twined around the wizard's head and torso; Draco watched him take a deep, rattling breath before falling still. Lines of agony that had previously marked his face smoothed out in a blissful, sleeping expression.

Without missing a beat, Granger uncoiled to her feet and stalked towards the Death Eater. Thin cords erupted from her wand, binding the huge wizard from shoulders to knees.

"We'll get him back to the Ministry with Side-Along Apparition," she announced, cuffing the Death Eater's arm with white knuckled fingers. "Are you injured, Malfoy?"

Draco tentatively examined his body, but even with the adrenaline gradually leaving him, he couldn't feel any pain save for the throbbing of a split lip. He knew, come tomorrow, he would be covered in bruises, but… he had been lucky. After seeing his stiff nod, Granger gave a few more instructions to the Aurors who were spaced around the half destroyed pub. Draco tuned out the words, catching mere snippets about reports and cordons, and stumbled over to her side.

Blaise was looking between them as though they had been splinched. "What's going on here?"

"New working arrangements," Draco muttered. "I'll tell you later."

Leaving Blaise in a state of bemusement, he and Granger turned on the spot and disappeared. They landed in the Atrium at the same time, the Death Eater still held firmly in Granger's unrelenting grip. In the time that it took Draco to blink, she had rapped the hulking wizard sharply over the head, rendering him the same colour as the dark wood floor, and swept him into the air with a nonverbal levitation charm. When she rounded on Draco, he found himself struck with the uncomfortable sensation of raw egg traveling down his spine before he could even lift his own wand in defence.

What she had said that morning echoed in time to the trickling of her Disillusionment Charm. Draco's jaw tightened and he glared at her, even though he knew he was all but invisible against the backdrop of the Atrium.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself," he snarled, that sizzling anger returning to settle just beneath his skin. It was so blistering, he was surprised the air around them wasn't shimmering with heat waves.

Granger didn't respond, but rather turned on her heel and began marching the length of the Atrium. Although he wasn't visible, Draco knew that the unconscious Death Eater would be hovering close behind. Even while controlling the wizard's considerable bulk, Granger's steps were quick, and by the time he had reached the large central fountain, she was already stepping into an elevator.

"Granger, where are you going!"

A few nearby witches turned at the sound of his voice but, thanks to Granger, couldn't see anything. He grumbled curses under his breath before following her.


	8. Traitor to the Cause

"Talk."

It had been less than an hour, and all of the Aurors were already back at their desks, working on the requested reports. Draco was standing in a darkened room at the heart of the Ministry, staring at a witch he scarcely recognised.

Granger's face was like stone. She held her wand between loose fingers, but her magic crackled and sang in the cramped space.

"I said, talk. Why did you attack the Drunken Sickle?"

The massive wizard twisted and thrashed in the chair he had been lashed to, but Granger's _Incarcerous _held well; the cords only tightened around his long, gorilla-like arms. Muted lighting glinted off his silver mask, and Potter's glasses. The Auror stood in one corner of the interrogation room, shoulder to shoulder with Weasley and Longbottom on either side. They had lead Draco down a winding corridor to a set of black, numbered doors. The one marked '4' had been open, revealing the Death Eater and his interrogator.

Granger flicked her wand, and the silver mask went skittering across polished, marble floor.

"Goyle?" Draco gaped, stepping closer to the chair. He felt rather than heard the Aurors draw a collective breath. "You… you tried to kill me! How dare you?"

"I was waiting for you all before I began the questioning," Granger said, loosening the spells she had placed on Goyle just enough so that the wizard could move his forearms. She did not stow away her wand. "Now that you're a little more comfortable, care to talk?"

"This room reeks of blood traitors and Mudbloods," Goyle spat, staring balefully at each of them. His eyes landed on Draco, boring into him as he ripped back his left sleeve and showed them all the brand upon his flesh. "You're a traitor to the cause," he hissed as he bared the Mark. Only, it wasn't like the one decorating Draco's own arm. Smaller and deformed, the skull was clumsily inked, and the protruding serpent tongue seemed to Draco more like an earthworm.

"You were called, and you didn't answer. For that you will be punished, just like your traitor father!"

All eyes snapped to him, but none were heavier than Granger's. Draco chanced a look in her direction, just in time to see her and Potter exchange glances— a conversation between two people who knew each other so well, no words were needed. Potter gave a barely perceptible nod and stepped over to the loudly protesting Goyle, while Draco was grabbed by a surprisingly strong hand and frogmarched from the interrogation room.

The door slammed with a sense of finality, and he found himself face to face with Granger and her blazing eyes in an empty corridor. Her oppressive magic sucked all air from the space, and Draco found it difficult to draw breath as he watched her fiddle agitatedly with her wand. Would she put it away, already? Despite being a head shorter than him, there was something almost intimidating about her severe expression. _Almost._

"Show me your arm, Malfoy, and don't give me any bullshit about how 'it's nothing'."

The foul language startled him, and he felt uncomfortably like perfect Prefect Granger had just caught him in the corridors after dark. A very volatile prefect, who still had her wand drawn. He found himself rolling up his sleeve; Granger hissed air sharply through her teeth when she saw his Dark Mark— inky black bordered by angry, swollen pink.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice sounded oddly choked, and she wouldn't look at him.

"Because it's an ugly scar that I would rather forget I had."

A heavy pause. Draco kept his face carefully neutral.

"But it could have been important to the investigation," she bristled, folding her arms across her chest. She wore Hit Wizard attire— a close fitting jacket and pants that tucked into sensible-looking boots. No sparkly flats in sight. "Merlin, it's _vital _to the investigation. It tells us that the Death Eaters are back in force, and someone is styling themselves as the new Dark Lord. Why else would it be activated?"

"Any one of us," the word tasted sour in his mouth, "could activate the Mark and summon the others. Not just… Him."

"It's still something you should have told me."

"Told you when, exactly? Before, or after you had a go at me?"

Her lips opened and closed, searching for words, and Draco felt a thrill of triumph that momentarily drowned his temper. Granger, with nothing to say?

"You're bleeding," she eventually blurted.

He rasped a short laugh, fingers rising to daub at his stinging lower lip. "So I am."

"Here— stay still."

Before he could stop her, Granger had stepped right up into his personal space. Her fingers were gentle on his chin as she tilted his face to the light, and Draco found himself holding his breath. What was she playing at? He considered shoving her away and insisting he could do it himself when he felt the first stirrings of her magic ghosting across his skin. Begrudgingly, he admitted that she was likely better at healing spells, and quietly let her do her work.

"There," she murmured, stepping away. Draco found his breath again. "Look, Malfoy, about what I said before… I'm sorry." Her eyes were bright as she peered up at him from beneath her lashes. "Can we… start again?"

Start again? Where was the beginning?

After a moment, Draco nodded curtly and said, "As you wish." He was relieved to find his voice cool and level. Potter stepped out of the investigation room and snicked the door shut, sparing him from having to say anything else.

"The idiot thought he was being really clever, smugly telling us that there's a Fidelius Charm placed on their hideout, so we'll _never _find it— that's two new pieces of information to add to your board, Hermione." Potter absentmindedly ruffled the front of his hair, and Draco fought to refrain from rolling his eyes. Some things never changed. "You think it's worth the paperwork to get permission for Veritaserum?"

Granger gave a thoughtful hum before shaking her head; a far cry from the witch with the blazing eyes. She had even tucked her wand away.

"Goyle's an open book by the sound of it, try getting more from him through questioning. I'm going to ask Kingsley for permission to use a Pensieve— the Wizengamot should have one to spare."

"Right. The scope of the investigation will turn to finding the Secret Keeper, though we'll need to keep expanding our list of known Death Eaters. Er, Hermione… could I have a word?"

Draco looked up, catching Potter just as he glanced away. A derisive laugh bubbled in his chest, but he was hardly surprised by the distrust. He tweaked his sleeve down before Potter had a chance to look at the constant reminder of what Draco had once been. When he turned to stalk off, leaving them to their little conversation, Granger's voice made him pause in the darkened hallway.

"Malfoy."

He turned, coolly arching a brow.

"Good work today."

After a mocking half bow he turned away again, making his way through the winding passageways that were the bowels of the Ministry. His healed lip still tingled as he stepped into the Atrium, held his wand tightly, and turned in place.

* * *

Draco pushed through the front door of Malfoy Manor and was immediately greeted by a liveried house elf.

"Allow Monby to take Master's cloak," the elf offered in a bullfrog voice, and Draco shrugged the garment off. He could see another house elf— this one clad in a pristine pillowcase— dusting the gilded frame of a long dead ancestor.

"Thank you, Monby."

The house was quiet but for the click of his shoes against the floorboards, but deep in the foundations of his family's ancient seat, a flicker of magic stirred. Dark, ancient, and impossible of being purged no matter how many times his mother decorated. Draco could smell sawdust in the air, and spotted a patch of the entry parlour re-wallpapering itself. He didn't need to call out to know where his mother would be.

As usual, he found her perched on a window seat at the edge of a small, bright sitting room. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in, turning her hair to spun gold, but her skin was pale and lustreless. She stared out at the first of the autumn leaves spiralling down, brittle and dead. The black of her mourning robes sucked up most of the light. His mother glanced up as he entered, and attempted a weak smile; Draco knew it was for his benefit alone, but he felt relieved that she was no longer as despondent as she had been immediately following his father's death.

"Hello, Mother. How goes the refurbishments?"

She beckoned him closer with a slender, ring-bedecked hand. A giant emerald glittered in the setting sun, casting errant shards of green light across the Mooncalf rug Draco stepped across on his way to the window seat.

"I have done most rooms, now, save a few," his mother said softly, returning her eyes to the garden outside with a small, melancholic sigh. They didn't talk about the dining room, where He had conducted most of his business. Nor did they speak of the drawing room down the hall, much less enter it. Whenever he passed, Draco could feel the echoes of the curses cast inside seeping through the crack beneath the door.

"Your room is just how it was." Her eyes were hopeful and sad as she peeked up at him. Trying to coax him to return to his childhood home.

"You know I cannot return, Mother. And what's more, I believe that you should leave, as well. It's not safe for you here."

"Lucius was in Knockturn Alley. I will be here, behind centuries of wards." Her voice was tremulous, and Draco seized her cold, delicate fingers and held them tight. She attempted a wan smile, her fingers twitching. "And besides, the Autumn Gala is approaching, and you know how that is always the most anticipated social event of the year."

"Are you sure you are feeling up to the occasion?"

"I am Narcissa Malfoy." A Slytherin glint entered her steely blue eyes, and she finally seemed to focus on Draco's face. "Who else is going to host it?"

He caught himself grinning. Really, an Autumn Gala when there were posters of escaped Death Eaters plastering every spare bit of wall in Diagon Alley? Leave it to his mother to pull off something so lavish, even in her fragile state.

"It would give me peace of mind if you would allow a few Aurors to attend, in disguise."

"Surely you are in no position to be asking favours of the Ministry?"

No, Draco supposed he wasn't. That didn't mean he couldn't ask.

"I'll pose it to Granger as a chance to catch any Death Eaters who try to use the Gala as an opportunity."

"Hmm, Miss Granger. Yes…" His mother's eyes were still bright and calculating, even if her tone was distracted. Ordinarily, that would be a cause for alarm… but Draco found he enjoyed her scheming expression much more than the forlorn air that had followed her around for weeks.

Still holding his mother's hand, he turned his attention to the garden that was steadily turning gold. A fountain played in the distance; the only sound as they sat and watched the sun set over Malfoy Manor.

* * *

**A/N: I have recently made a Tumblr, and even though I'm still figuring out how to use it, you're more than welcome to follow me! My username is littlestivy.**


End file.
